I spend an afternoon listening for the sound sun makes when it hits the ground,
a symphony as it slides off blades of grass, drowns itself in pools of shadow,
then stumble up a broken mountain to see how wind is cradled.
Not a single straight line is made anywhere.
Perhaps this accounts for our human obsession with maps,
our need to press curves into grids.
They say it is for memory, but I don’t believe them—
you can’t remember this.
How land spreads before sunset fire.
How ravens fly without moving a wing.
How a single leaf makes the decision to fall.
Does earth know to catch it when it does?
Jessica Michael lives and writes in Prescott, AZ when she’s not traveling this intriguing blue planet. Her work has appeared in Allegro, Comstock Review, Red Fez, Rebelle Society, Outdoor Australia, and others. Find her poetry and photography at www.authorjessicamichael.com or follow her on Instagram as @authorjessicamichael.